Echoes in Gold

Field dispatch, codename Black Lantern: entry logged at 17:44. Initial sweep revealed coin-laden cavern; metallic glare pulsed like an impatient heart. Swords mapped a ragged perimeter, but the center—an appetite dressed as a chest—claimed priority. Witness: prone figure, half-swallowed, limbs twitch-fixed in the hush, trunk-jaws latched in a grin sharp enough to orphan hope. A sign points carelessly to promise: *There Vojta*—the arrow’s mockery more brutal than teeth. Interpretation cascades: hunger disguised as fortune, prophecy etched in wood and irony. No cries, only the dark percussion of hoarded gold sliding as the tongue dragged deeper. We advanced too late for rescue, yet the story insists on motion. Coins still tumble like brittle seconds from an unseen hourglass; every chime reminds us the search runs on. Vojta did not surface here. His trail stutters, and the map folds inward again.